


Stranger Beneath

by SisyphusRising



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternative Universe - Anakin was never found by Jedi, Anakin Skywalker Has Issues, Anakin Skywalker Needs a Hug, Anakin is a hitman, Anakin learns to be a better person AU, Eventual Smut, Human Disaster Anakin Skywalker, M/M, No Underage Sex, Obi-Wan Kenobi is going to give him that hug damnit, The Jedi Order is in for a BIG surprise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23994268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SisyphusRising/pseuds/SisyphusRising
Summary: When Anakin's eyes turn yellow one day after killing a Rodian spice trader, he doesn't think much of it. As Jabba's top hitman, he encounters lot of strange people likely carrying strange diseases, so why worry?A certain Jedi changes his mind.
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker & Ahsoka Tano, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Ahsoka Tano, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 118
Kudos: 554





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first fanfic in....I want to say fifteen years? I've read so much Obikin that I wanted to contribute some stories of my own to the gorgeous collective of fan work here. A special thank you to my friend Ying for running beta on this fic! Visit me on Tumblr @theforceshallsetmefree :)
> 
> This fic is weirdly still a redemption story, but with a twist.

Anakin had never considered himself a vain person. That wasn’t to say that he was completely oblivious to his appearance— a drunk Twi-Lek once told him that his face looked like it was carved from the bark of a sacred fertility tree— but it wasn’t as though he overly concerned himself with it. If anything, his looks were a point of particular discomfort for him. Attractive slaves led brief, sad little lives on Tatooine.

So when Anakin caught his reflection in the mirror while he was dragging the body of the spice trader out of the kitchen, he couldn’t help but stare. Last time he’d checked, his eyes were blue.

The eyes that stared back at him now were a bright, piercing yellow. 

He dropped the spice trader’s leg, letting it thunk against the sandy floor. He crossed the room in a few quick strides until his nose was inches away from the glass. No, it was not a trick of the light. Up close, his eyes shimmered a deep gold that darkened amber around the rim, a color he might himself have found beautiful if he had not spent the first twenty-three years of his life with distinctly blue eyes. 

Anakin stepped back with a frown. He turned his head a few times, gaze never leaving his strange new reflection. Then, he pried open his left eyelid and tapped on the cornea with the pad of his finger, which accomplished exactly nothing but make him feel stupid. 

A sour odor assaulted his nostrils, and cursing under his breath, Anakin tore his gaze away from the mirror to look at the corpse leaking green blood all over his shoes. He must have accidentally hit an artery the third time he stabbed Zorg. Or was it Zorp? Kriff, he was never any good at remembering their names. 

The Rodian spice trader had been skimming, pocketing enough extra peggats to draw Jabba’s attention. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t be enough to land on the slug’s hitlist. Criminals in the company of criminals needed to expect some level of petty thievery in their ranks, otherwise powerful criminal enterprises would crumble before they ever took flight. But the way he crowed about it, publicly and unreservedly, it was like he thought he invented the idea of pilfering a little extra off the top. 

But Anakin had to give the dead Rodian some credit: he put up a decent fight, more so than the previous several slimy thieves that he’d dispatched. It had electrified Anakin to hunt him down, corner him, and kill him. A pleasant buzz still warmed Anakin’s fingertips, a mere tremor compared to the addictive seismic roar that had wrapped around his core during the hunt. Hunting allowed Anakin to focus. He rarely got that kind of heady concentration anywhere else, save perhaps when he was fixing ships or tinkering with the leftover scraps in Jabba’s droid dungeon. He wouldn’t call it peaceful— nothing about hunting was ever peaceful. But it settled him. Controlled the ever-present cyclone swirling in his head that teetered on the edge of spilling. 

Anakin sighed, stealing one last look in the mirror before unsheathing his vibroblade. His eye problem could wait. 

The corpse certainly wasn’t going to dismember itself.

~ ~ ~

“I don’t know what to tell you, Skywalker. Your eyes are fine.”

Anakin squinted against the glare of T’Prinka’s pen light, blinking rapidly when she clicked off the device and tossed it into her medpack. 

“Fine?” he said, incredulous. “They’re yellow!”

She shrugged. “Maybe that’s normal for your species.”

He scowled, hopping down from the examination table. “If it were normal, it would happen to other people. My Mom’s eyes never changed colors.”

“Yeah, but you never met your father, right?” she pointed out. “Maybe his did.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” said Anakin, shifting from one foot to the other. He learned a long time ago that the answer _I never had a biological father, my mother just woke up pregnant one day_ was rarely received with anything other than uncompromising disbelief or a pitying glance. Poor Anakin Skywalker. His mother had so many men that she didn’t even remember who the father of her child was. 

He’d gotten into a lot of fights as a kid over that. 

“Then do you have any other symptoms?” she asked. “Headache? Blurry vision?”

“No. I feel pretty good, actually,” he said, hesitant. That much was true. Physically, he’d never felt better.

T’Prinka held out a cigarette toward him, to which he shook his head. She pulled a match from her coat pocket and struck it against her scaly forearm, setting the match aflame. As she lit the tube and took a long drag, her expression turned thoughtful. 

“It’s possible you picked up something. When did you notice the change? Were you doing anything out of the ordinary?”

“I was taking care of a mark. Remember that Rodian spice trader that claimed he slept with the Duchess of Mandalore?”

T’Prinka wrinkled her nose. “Stirge?”

Anakin snapped his fingers. “Stirge! That was it.”

She exhaled, releasing a bitter puff of smoke into the air. “The immune systems of Rodians and humans are almost entirely incompatible, but Stirge was so disgusting that it's possible he transmitted something to you. If you’re okay with me taking a blood sample, I can run a couple of tests to see if there’s anything wild going on.”

“But T’Prinka,” he said, grinning, “with me, there’s always something wild going on.”

He barely ducked the swat to his head, laughing when T’Prinka rolled her eyes. She was the only med tech that Jabba kept on his staff. Why hire more when the only life form with an extensive knowledge of Huttese health and physiology on Tatooine was already on the payroll? Despite her position as Jabba’s exclusive personal doctor, she went out of her way to patch up Anakin whenever he limped back from whatever senseless tussle he’d started when he was in a bad mood.

Aside from his Mom, she was the best person he knew. She was _good_. 

T’Prinka saw him off by shoving a bottle of multivitamins into his arms and instructing him to get more sleep. He promised to do so knowing he probably wouldn't.

Anakin ambled back to his speeder a great deal less anxious than he had been when he arrived. If T’Prinka believed he was alright, then there was no point in dwelling on it. Hell, maybe it really was normal and Anakin had just never paid enough attention to other humans to notice. It wouldn’t be the first time.

_Ani, love, it’s alright, please— oh stars, your eyes—_

He paused, his grip tight around the speeder’s wheel. The memory of his Mom looking at him with unbridled, open fear flared up to the front of his mind, flashing a vision of her kneeling down before him and cradling his face in her palms. That’s right. She had mentioned his eyes. Why had she said that?

When Anakin was thirteen, Watto had sold Schmi to a pod-racing tourist for a night. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it, and it wouldn’t be long before Anakin also experienced that specific, brutal reality of Tatooinian bondage. But it was the first time he’d understood what was to happen. He remembered screaming himself hoarse, the choked sobs ripping from his throat halted only by fervent promises to kill Watto and the tourist and everyone who ever dared laid hands on them again. The whole world seemed to shake under the weight of his rage. Later, Anakin had felt such guilt upon surveying the ravaged state of their home, not realizing how much havoc he had wrought during his tantrum. 

Schmi had calmed him down, like she always did. She forgave him. Like she always did. 

He’d dismissed her comment about his eyes at the time. He’d been crying, and his eyes were surely swollen and puffy. But maybe— maybe she meant that the color burned gold, that her strange, fatherless son had developed one more unnatural feature and that he was even more monstrous than she had imagined. 

Anakin shook away the thought. It would have hurt his Mom to know that he was entertaining such uncharitable ideas.

The desert wind howled as he powered on the speeder and took off across the dunes, pushing the vehicle to its limit. A whirl of sand kicked up in its wake, and Anakin took pleasure in knowing that no other speeder on Tatooine (hey, maybe even in the quadrant) could match his pace. Many months spent modifying the engine, ordering special parts, and engineering a new structural design had resulted in the creation of his pride and joy: the Krayt. Anakin brushed his thumb over the wheel fondly. He would do a maintenance check on her when he got home. Running maintenance on the Krayt always made him feel better. 

Later that night, Anakin made it a point to cover all the mirrors in his house and unearth the Corellian brandy that he only drank on special occasions. The initial sting gave way to a sweet aftertaste, and soon, Anakin was singing Mos Eisley folk songs from beneath the Krayt, forgetting all about his eyes and his sad memories. 

And if he woke up in the bathtub curled around a liquor bottle and some old photos, well, it’s not like anyone was there to mock him for it.

~ ~ ~

Jabba’s Palace was a lot of things. Dangerous, for one. Anakin didn’t remember a day when there wasn’t at least one stunt or brawl orchestrated to fuel Jabba’s ever unquenched desire for violent entertainment. With a lifespan stretching over a thousand years, Anakin suspected that Jabba had long tired of anything short of unending mortal peril.

Jabba’s Palace was also a good place to gather information. Galactic news didn’t travel fast to the Outer Rim, but at Jabba’s Palace, Anakin could saddle up to the bar and get appraised on any topic, from politics to celebrity gossip. Not that Anakin had any invested interest in either. But on occasion, it was nice to learn about what was happening in the heart of the galaxy, to know that beyond the dunes of this rock there were strange and fascinating people and places that didn’t constantly try to kill each other. 

A Zabrak woman grunted and slipped backward, splashing mud on the audience pressed closely around a makeshift arena now erected in the center of the hall. They squealed in delight, jeering insults at the fallen Zabrak and throwing peggats at a Wroonian woman still standing knee-deep in mud. Blue skin dirtied by a layer of grime, the Wroonian beamed. Jabba’s baritone laughter echoed over the noise as she scooped up a handful of mud and launched it outward at the onlookers. 

The whole affair looked supremely expensive. It was exactly the sort of egregious display of time and wealth that would please Jabba, who probably needed to import a fortune’s worth of water and soil to achieve the desired effect.

Anakin slipped in, the guards barely acknowledging his presence. By now, they were used to him coming and going. That was the benefit of being Jabba’s favorite— everyone was _very_ careful to avoid pissing him off. 

A glass of cold wine was waiting for him on the countertop. He picked it up, nodding briefly toward the bartender before drinking it down with a grimace. Taking in the crowd, Anakin felt a shiver slide down his neck. Everyone was putting on their best mask today. Sure, they needed to look unaffected by whatever atrocity they witnessed in this cave of horrors, but something had shook it up. They were working extra hard to ensure no one noticed. 

Interesting.

Anakin set down the glass and beelined for Jabba’s throne. 

The slug was slurping something green and bubbling when Anakin approached the platform. “I hope I’m not interrupting, your Exaltedness,” said Anakin, folding his hands behind his back. “I heard you wanted to see me?”

Jabba’s assessing gaze fell over him. “ _Skywalker_ ,” he said, the corners of his massive sharp mouth turning upward. “ _It is good that you are here. I was beginning to think that you were, ah, sick._ ”

 _Sick_ was a Huttese euphemism for dead. Or worse. 

“No, your Exaltedness,” said Anakin, reassuringly, “I’ve just been busy this week. You know how I get when a new cruiser hits the market.”

“ _Hm. Yes, that one from Coruscant. Is it good_?”

“It’s shit. But not to worry, I’m already drawing up the blueprints to make a better version.”

Jabba laughed, deep and voluminous. 

“ _You never disappoint, Skywalker.”_

Anakin swallowed some bile and smiled.

Jabba shifted in his throne, waving his meaty arm at some armored servants lurking in the back. Immediately the Zabrak woman was dragged from the arena, struggling and squirming in the cruel grip of Jabba’s henchmen. Anakin did not see where she was taken next, but he had no doubt that her body would be feeding the sand wolves by morning. 

“ _I have another job for you_ ,” said Jabba, leaning back into his cushions, “ _but this one is different. A challenge.”_

“I don’t mind a challenge,” said Anakin, shrugging. “Who’s the hit?”

“ _Not a hit. The nature of this challenge is reconnaissance. Information._ ”

Anakin tilted his head, listening. 

Jabba’s wide mouth formed a sneer. “ _The Republic are flies buzzing around my head, eating from the bounty at my table. For months, they have pestered me for access to my trade space. They want to poke their long, ugly noses in my territory. And for months I have ignored them. Why should I concern myself with their petty problems? What could they offer Jabba that Jabba does not already possess? Now, they have sent an agent of the Republic to steal from me_.”

“Steal? What did they take?”

“ _One of the Nal Hutta jewels is missing. It disappeared right when the agent arrived, singing false claims of peace_.”

Anakin hummed. The jewels of Nal Hutta weren’t actually jewels, per say, but rather a political signature. If someone carried a jewel of Nal Hutta, it meant they spoke for a Hutt of high standing and made decisions on their behalf. 

Frankly, Anakin was already impressed with whoever had managed to steal one of Jabba's jewels. The slug kept them in his _teeth_.

“Alright,” said Anakin, “so all I need to do is find the thief and make them cough up the jewel. No offense to your lordship, but that doesn’t sound too bad.”

“ _You need not find him. He is here, down below.”_

Anakin frowned. “So you just need me to interrogate him? Can’t anybody do that?”

“ _It has been… unsuccessful_ ,” said Jabba, scratching his corpulent chin. “ _This thief is more cunning. As I say, he is different_.” 

“Different how?”

“ _Because, he is a Jedi_.”

~ ~ ~

Anakin wished he hadn’t worn the Dewback jacket. 

It was a nice jacket, that’s for sure. All deep green and thick, yet engineered to release heat and trap moisture. Probably a testament to Anakin’s arrogance that he always wore it whenever he came around Jabba’s Palace, strutting and flaunting his pay grade to whoever was around to see. Reminding some of Jabba’s lackeys that if they screwed up, the last thing they’d see was Anakin in his green jacket, sinking a vibroblade into their belly. 

But now the jacket felt too heavy. It encased him in a tight embrace, amplifying Anakin’s acute sense of claustrophobia in the narrow stairwell that led into a latticework of underground cells. He paused, leaning against the wall for support. 

Jabba had imprisoned a Jedi. _A Jedi_ , thought Anakin, the word reverberating through his mind and slicing into the childish, innermost parts of himself. It was an intense feeling, a yearning, one that was still painful to remember after all these years. He chided himself for still feeling raw, so _betrayed_ about it all. He had waited a long time for that kind Jedi with the wrinkles around his eyes to come back for him, watching the sky every night and wondering if the next twinkling star was the starship coming to take him away.

It had been foolish to hope that the Jedi would teach him how to be a legendary warrior. To hope that they would free a worthless slave boy from a lifetime of servitude. 

It didn’t matter, in the end. Anakin was his own deliverance, painting his road to freedom in blood. 

The clack of Anakin’s footsteps filled the quiet, cold prison block as he navigated his way toward the Jedi’s holding cell— it was the furthest from the exit, and the most secure. Jabba had been smart to maintain the subterranean infrastructure. Installing a combination of hardware locks that required specific physical intervention was a strategic way of keeping the more savvy prisoners from simply intuiting their way out with the correct security code.

Rounding the corner, Anakin stopped. The cell block was empty aside from a lone figure on the furthest end. Anakin unconsciously sucked in a breath.

There, sitting cross-legged on the hard floor, was the Jedi. 

Everything about the Jedi’s pose suggested deep concentration. His pale, calloused hands rested atop his knees, shoulders barely rising and falling to the steady rhythm of his breathing. Although his eyes were closed, his posture was ramrod straight. To the unobservant he might have looked asleep, but his rigid position displayed a strange, contrasting picture of relaxation and vigilance.

The man was strikingly handsome. 

Anakin blinked. 

_That_ wasn’t something he expected. 

Even from this shabby vantage point, Anakin could see dark copper hair parted carefully off to the side, the man’s trimmed beard adorning what looked to be a firm, masculine face now just beginning to lose its softer edges. His neckline disappeared below several layers of cream colored fabric, apparel that Anakin decided must have been designed in a futile attempt to hide the tantalizing curves of the man’s upper body.

Before Anakin could finish gawking, a crisp tenor voice cut through the silence.

“Are you here to torture me?” asked the Jedi. 

The Jedi’s pose on the floor remained unchanged, not so much as looking up at his visitor as he spoke. He never opened his eyes, so there’s no way he could have seen Anakin enter the cell block. 

Anakin thought about it. “Probably not,” said Anakin. “Why? You wanna be tortured?”

The man’s mouth twitched. “No,” said the Jedi, “no, I can’t say I do.”

Well, glad we got that out of the way then, thought Anakin dryly. He walked up to the man’s cell and plopped down, arranging himself to mirror the Jedi’s formal pose. He quickly squashed the flare of giddiness that arose when he performed the motion.

The man’s features were more refined up close, giving him an aristocratic air. Maybe if he hadn’t been a Jedi, the man would have grown up the son of a duke. Or a king.

“The big slug upstairs says you stole his jewel,” said Anakin. 

“Yes, he does say that.”

Anakin waited. “Well? Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you steal the big slug’s jewel?”

The Jedi’s brow quirked. “Would you believe me if I said no?”

Anakin thought about it. “Probably not,” he said, “but I had to ask.”

The man’s eyes opened. His clear blue gaze met Anakin’s through the bars, measuring him with a shrewd curiosity that sent shivers rippling down his spine.

Anakin learned how to read people when he was a kid. Accidentally getting swindled by some sly traveler often meant earning a beating so rough he could barely walk the next day, so it became imperative to identify the liars, and if possible, steal from them. The universality to the language of liars never failed to fascinate him. They shared a banquet of tells, revealing the flavor of the lie as it left their lips.

People lied for all kinds of reasons— to protect themselves, to aggrandize their actions. Some simply enjoyed the thrill of lying and hurting. Jabba was one of those sorts.

But for the most part, people lied because they were afraid.

When the Jedi looked at him, his pupils dilated. His chapped lips parted slightly, blowing out a sharp exhale that resounded audibly in the quiet cell. Unsettled. Something about Anakin unsettled him.

“Who are you?” whispered the Jedi.

“Anakin Skywalker,” he said, thrown by the man’s shift in demeanor.

“Why are you here, Anakin Skywalker?”

“The big slug upstairs says you stole hi—”

“Do not take me for a fool,” the Jedi snapped. “I don’t know why you’ve allied yourself with the Hutts, but I don’t believe for one second that you serve their interests.”

Anakin scratched the back of his neck. “That’s a weird way to put it, but I mean, a guy’s gotta make a living somehow, right?” 

The Jedi scowled. “What master do you truly serve? Are they on this planet?”

Anakin chewed on his lip in irritation. “I haven’t served a _master_ ever since I sliced off his head when I was nineteen. What’s it to you, anyway?”

“Oh, please. You’re far too young to be a lord of the Sith. Now I’ll ask again: why are you really here?”

Now Anakin was truly at a loss. The Jedi’s hard stare bordered on fury, as though Anakin had committed some personal, grievous crime against him.

“Listen, I don’t know who you think I am,” said Anakin, raising his palms in a placating motion, “and I don’t know what crawled up your ass, but I’m gonna need you to understand that I’m here because the _big slug upstairs says you stole his kriffing jewel_.” 

The Jedi’s hardened expression wavered, and then Anakin felt… searched. His gut gave a lurch at the sensation of some invisible hand threading its fingers through his hair and tugging, dipping into his skull, navigating the crevices of his mind like a mouse in a maze.

It felt violating. 

Anakin scrambled to his feet. “Okay so could you maybe cut that out?” said Anakin, not caring if the Jedi heard his voice tremble. 

Instantly the sensation fell away. “You are not a Sith,” breathed the man, like he couldn’t quite believe it even as he said it. His eyes were wide when they looked up at Anakin. 

“No,” said Anakin, “no, I don’t think so. I just occasionally kill people for money.”

The Jedi continued to stare.

“I mean, they’re usually pretty bad people. Thieves, murderers. One day, when I get the chance, I’m gonna kill the slug too.”

“And you cannot control the force?”

Anakin shook his head. “No, uh, a long time ago a Jedi told me he was gonna train me, but then he left and he— well, he never came back.”

The Jedi seemed to deflate at that, his shoulders slumping as he reached up to stroke his beard in what appeared to be a self-soothing gesture. 

Anakin squatted down. He knew he should just leave it be, but his curiosity overpowered any thin desire he had to find out what happened to Jabba’s stupid rock. “What’s a Sith?” he asked, his face hovering inches away from the bars. 

“A Sith,” said the Jedi, tiredly, “is a force-user who specializes in the dark side of the force. They sew horror and destruction across the galaxy, enslaving others to their will while calling it freedom. They believe that only the strongest should rule, and above all, that the dark side is the one true path to enlightenment.”

Anakin digested this. “Wow, that sounds pretty bad.”

“It is.”

“Okay, so then, why did you think I was a Sith?”

“There is much about the dark side— no, the force, that we do not understand. Although we are all born with the capacity to use the force, some, like you, are given so much that it flows out like an ocean.” 

The Jedi leaned forward, studying him. “I think that you are overwhelmingly force-sensitive. I also think that you were born into circumstances that forced you to hurt or be hurt, to kill or be killed. Is that assessment correct?”

Anakin’s throat tightened. He nodded.

“You have the force,” the Jedi continued, “you have not been trained to control it, but you have used it to hurt and to kill. You were not aware of it, but you have harnessed the dark side. And so, your eyes…”

His eyes. Anakin broke away from the Jedi’s gaze, suddenly uncomfortable under the heat of his attention. His heart began to pound at the implication in the man’s words.

That was the reason? Anakin’s eyes turned yellow— sickly, disgusting yellow— because he was… 

Evil?

He thought of his mother looking at him with terror while he destroyed something in their small, ramshackled house. He thought of all the times the cabinets and furniture shook and cracked because he had made it so. He thought back to when he fell to his knees and begged for Jabba’s permission to kill Watto, thought of ripping out Watto’s wings and watching him scream as he bled out over the workshop. He thought of the torrent of blood that stained his hands.

_Ani, love, it’s alright, please— oh stars, your eyes—_

Anakin’s vision blurred, and he wiped away a hot tear before it could slide down his face.

Evil.

“Hey,” said Anakin, after a minute of silence. “What’s your name?”

The Jedi paused. “It’s Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“Obi-Wan, did you steal the big slug’s jewel?”

“No, Anakin,” sighed Obi-Wan. “I did not steal Jabba’s jewel, no matter what he might say on the matter.”

Obi-Wan’s posture was open, his handsome face weary but genuine. 

Nodding, Anakin pondered aloud, “Why would Jabba accuse a Jedi?”

“A ruse, I suspect. Jabba has rejected all previous proposals to forge a temporary neutrality agreement in the Doran System, so I was sent to see if his position could be altered. Lo and behold, the night after I arrive, I am labelled a thief and deposited down here. Your employer is sending a message to the Republic that he will not stand for such attempts at negotiation.”

Anakin frowned. Yes, that would be consistent behavior for Jabba, to manufacture some scandal to avoid dealing with galactic authorities. But Jabba wouldn’t have asked Anakin to shake down Obi-Wan unless he believed there was something to be gained by it. Otherwise, why go through the trouble? 

Jabba was arrogant, but he wasn’t stupid. Detaining a Jedi, one sent on a diplomatic mission no less, was a sure-fire way to get more Jedi to swarm Tatooine. So either Jabba was trying to start something with the Republic, or the jewel of Nal Hutta had truly been stolen.

Which meant that someone had framed Obi-Wan.

“Alright. Yeah, okay,” said Anakin, standing up. He shoved his fists in the pockets of his Dewback jacket, now stiff from the cold air permeating in the underground prison, and shot out of the cell block. 

“Anakin?” called Obi-Wan, the surprise evident in his voice. “Anakin, where are you going?”

Over his shoulder, he called back, “I’m gonna figure out who stole the big slug’s jewel, and then I’m gonna bust you out of here.”

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally finished chapter 2! It's double the size of chapter 1, so buckle up.
> 
> All the nice comments I got on the first chapter definitely boosted my confidence, so if you were one of the commenters, know that you have watered my crops and increased my credit score. Also, I must apologize: I am not a fast writer. I think Himboskywalker updated Conceal Me What I Am like 5 times since I posted chapter 1 (which is a great fic btw, highly recommend), but I want to be more consistent with my writing schedule.
> 
> Also I'm on Tumblr, so come scream with me: [theforceshallsetmefree](https://theforceshallsetmefree.tumblr.com)

Of all the planets Obi-Wan thought would kill him, Tatooine was a rather surprising contender for the privilege. 

Dathomir had seemed like the most plausible candidate, really. He could scarcely recall a time on the red planet when he wasn’t fleeing reanimated Night Sister corpses or defending himself against rampaging Nydaks, both vying for a taste of Jedi flesh. It would have, at the very least, been a most fascinating place to rejoin the living force, considering the fact that his body would likely be recycled for necromancy. A most judicious, if not entirely mortifying, final resting place indeed.

And yet with every passing second, Obi-Wan was gradually becoming convinced that Tatooine—empty, uneventful Tatooine— would be the planet to do him in. 

He had expected to be bored on this mission. Bored. If his ribs weren’t still sore from the round of kicking received from Jabba’s Gammorrean guards, he might have laughed at his naivety.  _ A straightforward mission _ , said Windu.  _ Just a diplomatic mission in the Outer Rim, three days at the most _ . 

Obi-Wan groaned, massaging his temples. Nothing had unfolded in any of the ways he’d predicted. Though it would have been ideal for Jabba to immediately concede temporary access to Hutt territory, Obi-Wan was not so conceited as to think himself capable of swaying the notoriously antagonistic crime lord in a mere three days. The purpose of this mission was merely to plant seeds. To make appealing suggestions, and then simply wait for Jabba to reach out to the Republic with his own proposal and set of conditions. 

Negotiation was, in a roundabout way, a matter of gardening. Plant enough seeds, and the garden will grow exactly as designed. 

Jabba’s resistance to his arrival was by no means an unforeseen possibility, but the sheer intensity of his rejection raised several red flags. The most alarming of which was not the sincerity behind Jabba’s accusation. In fact, as far as Obi-Wan was concerned, the very accusation that had precipitated his imprisonment was irrelevant. More pressing was the reality that Jabba had publicly denounced a representative of the Republic, disarmed him, and confined him without producing any evidence to justify his actions.

Two conclusions could be drawn. Either Jabba’s formerly moderate autonomy in the Outer Rim was broadening significantly, or the Republic’s centralizing authority had destabilized to a worrying degree. Perhaps both. The Hutt’s brazen behavior would seem to indicate a shift in interplanetary politics, but where? When? What did Jabba know that the Jedi counsel did not? 

Obi-Wan had planned to meditate on these troubling matters.

But then a Sith sat down in front of him. 

_ Anakin Skywalker _ , thought Obi-Wan, slumping backward. Anakin Skywalker. A Sith who was not a Sith. A man whose eyes shimmered gold with all the aura of a dark force user. And yet, Anakin harnessed no control over the tremendous power that roared inside him, an energy so overwhelming that it radiated outward and pummeled Obi-Wan’s painstakingly reinforced mental shields. 

It was like staring into the sun.

Anakin was so, so  _ bright _ .

The yellow eyes that had gazed back at Obi-Wan were filled with curiosity, an earnest sense of wonder that had left Obi-Wan breathless. Most people in the Outer Rim regarded the Jedi with suspicion. Years ago, Qui-Gon had explained that they perceived the Jedi as an invasive species, one that attempted to reorganize their way of life with confusing stories about mystical energy and grand destinies. Such perceptions begot fear, and then hatred. 

Yet Anakin’s eyes were completely absent of the malice that should have resided there, nothing like the other pair of yellow eyes that Obi-Wan had encountered fourteen years ago. Eyes that harbored only murderous glee as they watched a saber impale the heart of his mentor—his best  _ friend— _

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly, unclenching his iron-clad grip from the hem of his robe. The day Qui-Gon died had left a stain under his skin. A creeping darkness that haunted him, threatening to pull him down into the hearth of his most reviled desires. 

He could only hope that one day he would find a way to scrub it out. 

Anakin, for all his ignorance of the Sith, had plunged headlong into that darkness, immersing himself in ways that would have required others years of study to achieve. Even for a Sith apprentice, Obi-Wan surmised that such a feat would be an arduous one. With time, anyone with a bare thread of force sensitivity could eventually control the volcanic mass that Anakin exuded naturally. Master Yoda claimed that those with low midichlorians—most people in the galaxy, by all accounts— could access the living force through meditation, but that it necessitated a paradigm shift in one’s understanding of reality. 

But not for Anakin Skywalker. Oh no, for Anakin Skywalker, the force had decided to play favorites. 

Obi-Wan replayed their conversation in his mind. He recalled the seismic shifts in Anakin’s emotions as Obi-Wan explained the meaning of the Sith, watching Anakin’s expression morph from interest to horror. The response was too genuine to be a ploy.

So many aspects of this young man begged further investigation, but Anakin had bolted out the cell block and hurtled up the stairs before Obi-Wan could so much as formulate his next question. Resolve had flashed over Anakin’s face, and then he was gone, taking his storm with him. 

The whole experience was worryingly surreal. Obi-Wan half-heartedly considered the notion that Anakin was some odd force hallucination conjured to humble him, but he dismissed it with a snort. There were far better ghosts in his memory to haunt him than a stranger with alluring dimples and dark blonde hair.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, settling himself into the most comfortable position he could manage. There was no telling when another one of Jabba’s enforcers might come to interrogate him, or flay his skin off, so it would be best to catch some fleeting rest while he still could. 

As the heavy curtain of sleep drifted over him, the memory of Anakin refused to depart from Obi-Wan’s mind. Anakin and his striking yellow eyes that burned into his own. Anakin and his refreshing straightforwardness. Anakin, who ignited a barrage of conflicting feelings and unanswered questions that Obi-Wan was too tired to address.

Obi-Wan sighed.

He wondered when he would see him again.

~ ~ ~

“Jedi? Uh, Obi-Wan? Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

Obi-Wan jolted awake, blinking. “Hngh— yes? Hello?”

Crouching just outside his cell was Anakin, gazing at him with concern.

“You alright there, Obi-Wan? Didn’t mean to wake you, but I thought you might be hungry.”

Cradled in Anakin’s arms was a massive spread of cured meats and fresh bread, the warm scent of it wafting on the air and into Obi-Wan’s nose. His stomach growled and he nodded, already pushing himself off the floor. 

Anakin grinned when Obi-Wan sat down, leaning in close to the prison’s threshold to pass the food gingerly between the bars. “The slug is throwing a party tomorrow evening, so the kitchens are stocked with all the good stuff.”

“Oh?” said Obi-Wan. “What is the occasion?” He bit into one of the loaves, failing to stifle the low groan that followed.

Anakin cleared his throat before speaking. “Jabba said he wants to punish the lying  _ jeedai _ in front of a live audience. Big event. Lots of dancing, some singing. They’ll probably shove you in a cage and take turns throwing fruit at you.”

“Is that it?”

“Whenever they get bored of flaying your skin off, of course.”

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes with a sigh. “Yes, of course.”

Anakin produced a flask from his jacket’s inner pocket and held it out to Obi-Wan, who accepted the offered container with curiosity. Unscrewing the lid, a quick sniff revealed the contents to be water. He poured it down his parched throat with long gulps.

Anakin pressed closer. “You won’t have to worry about all that, though,” said Anakin conspiratorially. 

“And pray tell, why not?”

“'Cause I’m gonna prove your innocence during the party.”

Obi-Wan looked at Anakin. The young man was biting his lower lip in an unsuccessful effort to suppress a grin. In spite of himself, Obi-Wan was charmed. 

“You identified the culprit, I take it?” prompted Obi-Wan.

“Yup. I’m about ninety-nine percent sure about it. That’s pretty high up there on my certainty scale. Hell, I’ve killed people when I was only like  _ sixty _ percent sure they did something to deserve it, so, you know. I’m pretty sure about this.”

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. That didn’t inspire confidence. 

“That doesn’t inspire confidence, Anakin.”

Anakin folded his arms across his chest. “Oh, c’mon! You haven’t even heard me out yet.”

With the hand that wasn’t fisting a loaf of bread, Obi-Wan reached up to stroke the bristles of his beard between his thumb and forefinger. It needed a trim.

“Alright then,” said Obi-Wan, his gaze flicking up to meet Anakin’s through the bars. “Who did it, and how do you know, with ninety-nine percent certainty, that they stole the jewel of Nal Hutta?”

And so Anakin told him.

~ ~ ~

Anakin had never liked Bib Fortuna.

To be more exact: Anakin had never liked Bib Fortuna, and Anakin felt  _ bad _ about not liking Bib Fortuna. 

When it came right down to it, Anakin and the Twi'lek chief of staff were cut from the same cloth. Kidnapped as a child and sold into slavery, Bib had only known profound suffering since the moment he left Ryloth. The kinds of stories about what Twi’lek slaves like Bib were forced to do were whispered among Tatoonian slave children as a balm for their own wounds. Yeah, that beating was bad, but hey, at least we’re not Twi’lek slaves. If we were Twi’lek slaves, it would have been a lot worse. 

Looking at Bib Fortuna, such stories seemed given legs to stand on. The man trembled at abrupt sounds. He walked robotically, as though minding a host of residual injuries that were engraved in his bones and buried in his flesh. His raw pink eyes seemed to stare a little too long at things unseen.

Anakin could only conclude that when Jabba purchased Bib however many years ago, he must have recognized a glimmer of intelligence in the pale, broken man. Jabba gave Bib a life unknown to slaves, promoted him to a position that most would have killed for, and allowed him luxuries beyond his wildest dreams. 

It was a calculating move to lavish these wonders upon such a grateful recipient, because in exchange, Bib gave Jabba boundless loyalty. Around here, that was a more coveted resource than water. 

Anakin sashayed into the hall. Like clockwork, the gaggle of patrons surrounding the bar cleared a space for him. The bartender—Diph? He was pretty sure the guy’s name was Diph—poured a glass of sparkling white wine as he approached. 

“Hey Diph,” said Anakin, resting his forearms atop the counter and folding his hands together. He tried to keep his posture open, unthreatening. “You’ve been here the past three days, right?”

His question was met with a vertical blink. “Skywalker, I am here every day. You know this.”

Anakin grinned. “Just checking.”

He sipped the wine, taking a moment to savor the sweet burn. 

“So, Diph—”

“My name is Maltar, Skywalker. You know this.”

“That’s right,” Anakin smiled apologetically, “Maltar, yes, I did know that.”

Maltar eyed him warily, throwing a towel over his shoulder. “What is it, Skywalker?”

“I’m looking for Bib,” said Anakin, leaning forward over the bar. “He’s been around, right? The past three days?”

“ _ You _ are looking for  _ Bib _ ?”

Anakin nodded, paused, and then clarified, “I’m not gonna kill him or anything. I just need to ask him a couple questions.”

The tension in Maltar’s frame slackened. “I am surprised. You do not like Bib.”

“No one likes Bib. That’s not that weird.”

“No one  _ shows _ that they do not like Bib. You are more...demonstrative.”

Anakin ruminated on that. Okay, so maybe Anakin had been a little obvious about his distaste for Jabba’s chief of staff, but that was only because everyone else was afraid they’d get gutted for saying anything. Who was going to gut Anakin for talking trash? Bib? Like hell. 

“...I see your point,” acquiesced Anakin. “But I still need to talk to him. The guy knows about everything that goes on in this place, so I figured he might know what happened to Jabba’s jewel.” He took another long sip.

“Bib knows what happened to the jewel of Nal Hutta,” said Maltar, his antennas vibrating in amusement. “Bib said he saw the Jedi steal it.” 

Anakin spat out his drink, spraying it over the countertop. “He said  _ what _ ?”

Muttering unintelligible Huttese curses below his breath, Maltar ducked beneath the bar to retrieve a sanitation cloth. His translucent eyes glared daggers at Anakin while he wiped up the residue. As he worked, he elaborated on Bib’s recent testimony.

Bib had spent the past week all but glued to Jabba’s side. On occasion, Jabba would send Bib off-planet as a representative, making him deal with inconsequential squabbles or act as a ceremonial stand-in at boring social functions. Usually funerals. But not this week: this week, Bib was coordinating all major events at Jabba’s Palace, arranging for new entertainment and overseeing Jabba’s tight schedule. 

He even organized Jabba’s meeting with Obi-Wan.

According to Bib, the Jedi had inflicted a strange spell on the guards stationed outside Jabba’s bedroom, putting them to sleep before slipping in and stealing the jewel. Of course, since Bib was the one to witness the theft, the Jedi’s vehement denials to the crime were meaningless. 

“He is in the recreation hall auditioning dancers for tomorrow,” said Maltar. “I advise that you wait. Bib does not appreciate interruptions—”

Anakin was already spinning on his heel. “Thank  _ you _ , Maltar, you’re a pal!”

Maltar continued to shout unheard warnings at Anakin as he took off down Jabba’s labyrinthian hallways. When Anakin first started working for Jabba, he got lost countless times in these looping corridors, exploring winding passages only to end up in empty echo chambers that contained nothing but a single piece of furniture and a few bloody handprints. Anakin imagined that this layout was intentional. For prisoners, it made escape seem that much more hopeless.

Now, Anakin maneuvered the palace with a sure step, and soon the sound of drumming and off-key trumpet fanfares signaled that he’d arrived. Several Twi’lek men and women were writhing together on a spacious mat, grinding and moaning between weighted touches, and for an alarming moment, Anakin thought he mistakenly walked into the orgy room. 

A quick scan of the room dissuaded him of that notion. Pacing alongside the mat, Bib was watching the throng of bodies with an assessing stare, apparently tracking the indecipherable choreography that guided their movements. After a few lengthy beats, Bib clapped his hands. The music immediately ceased. 

“You,” he said, glaring at a green Twi’lek woman, “and, ah,  _ you _ .” He made a slight curling gesture with his fingers at a blue Twi'lek man. “You keep missing the pick-up note. Do  _ not _ miss it again.” Bib nodded at the small practice band, and the music resumed, the shaken dancers hurriedly returning to the top of their script.

Anakin plastered on a wide smile and shoved his fists inside his jacket pockets. Now was as good a time as any to say hello. 

With as much cheer as he could muster, Anakin called out, “Heya Bib!” 

Bib’s head swerved with a sharp twist toward Anakin’s ambling form. “Sk-Skywalker!” he sputtered. 

“Just the man I was looking for,” Anakin grinned. He stepped into Bib’s personal space, squeezing the man’s shoulder in a near-painful grip before slapping him on the back. “Last I saw you, you were going to that funeral. How was that? Fun?”

Bib flinched. “Erm, yes, quite pleasant. The F’loo’Qazan family is quite hospitable.”

Anakin nodded. “Right, right, the F’loo’Qazan family.” He paused. “Wait, didn’t I kill that guy like a month ago?”

“Ah, why yes.”

“Jabba sent you to attend the funeral of  _ a guy he whacked?” _

“His Exaltedness is quite courteous,” said Bib, unblinking. “Oh, that reminds me, I must congratulate you on the...competence of your work, Skywalker.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“The body was never found. It was a closed casket funeral.”

Yup, that’s him. Anakin Skywalker, connoisseur of murder. 

“Sorry to intrude on, uh,” Anakin waved at the mat of writhing, scantily clad dancers, “whatever is going on here, but I had some questions about the jewel of Nal Hutta. I heard that you saw what happened…?” 

Bib straightened. He clapped his hands, barking at the gyrating dancers to take a five minute break, then turned away from the mat to eye Anakin with suspicion. 

“I saw that Jedi scum worm his way into Lord Jabba’s private quarters and steal his most treasured possession,” said Bib. “I knew from the beginning that the Republic only wanted to take advantage of Lord Jabba’s vast estate, but I could not have imagined that the Jedi would lie like a squealing—”

“So you were in Jabba’s room?”

Bib paused. “What?”

“You said you saw him steal it. Did you follow him into Jabba’s room or were you already there?”

“I—” He paused again. “I was passing by Lord Jabba’s quarters! His guards were on the floor, put to sleep by Jedi magic—”

“So you  _ didn’t _ see him take it.”

Bib opened his mouth and closed it. “I saw the Jedi come out of Jabba’s quarters with the jewel in his hand!” he said finally. 

“Why didn’t you raise the alarm when you saw him?” said Anakin, raising an eyebrow.

“Not all of us are so...capable, Skywalker. The Jedi could have killed me, so I hid.”

Bib recounted his testimony in a quivering voice, fiddling nervously with the end of his lekku. He seemed to shrink under Anakin’s yellow-eyed gaze, his sharp teeth clacking together when he finished speaking.

Every word he’d said was a lie. 

All these years, Anakin had misjudged Bib. He hadn’t questioned Bib’s mindless devotion to Jabba, simply taking for granted that Bib was a spineless sleemo too traumatized by slavery to plot against his supposed liberator, too emboldened by his elevated status to demonstrate compassion. But really, the old Twi’lek was just as conniving as every other life form in Jabba’s palace. His sputtering and prostration were merely a smokescreen.

Bib had stolen the jewel, and he had cast Obi-Wan as his scapegoat. 

It was the only thing that made sense. Maybe three or four people besides Jabba himself knew the security codes to his room, and Anakin was willing to bet that Bib was one of those chosen few. He was also, conveniently, the only “witness” to the theft. Few would dare come to the defense of a posh-voiced Jedi from Coruscant when Jabba’s chief of staff stood as the accuser. 

Anakin chewed on the inside of his cheek, flashing a tight grin at Bib. “That’s smart, hiding. I hear that Jedi can do all sorts of weird shit. If you weren’t careful, he might’ve boiled your blood with a look.”

Bib looked like he wasn’t sure whether Anakin was joking. “Right. Yes, ah, exactly.”

“Thanks for the chat,” said Anakin, giving Bib another harsh clap on the back. Bib nearly stumbled forward this time. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Curious sets of eyes followed Anakin out the door, and it struck Anakin that their little exchange was not as discreet as Bib probably wanted it to be. His suspicions were confirmed when the sound of Bib yelling  _ what do you all think you’re looking at, you idiots _ reverberated outward, startling the servants passing in the hallway. Anakin coughed a laugh and increased his pace, something like vindication fluttering in his gut. 

He knew there was a reason why he didn’t like Bib.

~ ~ ~

Finishing his tale, Anakin watched Obi-Wan with big, expectant eyes. 

A pause stretched between them.

“You know, Anakin,” said Obi-Wan, massaging his temples. “There were parts of that story that you didn’t need to tell me. For example, the part about the orgy room—”

“I thought you should have context.”

“Your embellishments went  _ well _ beyond context.” 

“But you believe me, don’t you?” said Anakin, a current of anxiety bleeding into his tone. “Bib is the only one who could do something like this and get away with it, I’m sure of it.”

Obi-Wan looked at Anakin. The young Not-Sith’s shaggy mess of dark blonde hair was tucked behind his ears, softening the sharper edges of his face. Only the faint scar line etched over his eye hinted at the hardships that Anakin had endured, and if Obi-Wan had heard Anakin’s comment about a former  _ master _ correctly, then he was all but certain that those hardships had been great indeed.

The thought sobered him. 

“I believe you, Anakin,” said Obi-Wan. “But it is as you said: my word against Bib’s. Here, I’m afraid, my word weighs very little.”

Anakin grinned. “Yours doesn’t, but mine does.”

Obi-Wan frowned. “You were not a witness.”

“That doesn’t matter,” said Anakin, lowering his voice. “If I request an audience during the party—tell a few jokes, compliment the slug—and speak on your behalf, then Jabba will definitely let you go. I’ve racked up a few favors with the slug, see. Might as well cash’m in now.”

“Why?”

“I mean, what else am I gonna do with favors from Jabba? I sure as hell don’t want one of his pleasure cruisers—”

“That’s not it,” said Obi-Wan, dryly. “Why help me? We only met this morning. And this morning, I might add, I accused you of embodying a reviled figure of legend.”

That wasn’t strictly true. These days, the Sith were less figures of legend and more colossal inconvenience. Every historical record in the temple archives reported that the Sith were extinct, that the teachings and philosophies required to mold them died along with them nearly a thousand years ago. Based on the Anakin-shaped evidence sitting in front of him, Obi-Wan was beginning to hypothesize that the Jedi’s repository of knowledge about the Sith was somewhat...misinformed. 

Anakin stared down at his lap, pensive, and Obi-Wan barely concealed a grimace as a wave of remorse swelled outward from Anakin and buffeted against his shields. So powerful was Anakin’s psychic influence that even the smell of the cell changed; a damp, humid scent enveloped them, like the wet, static air right before a storm. How Anakin had survived so long without training, Obi-Wan would never know. There were stories, warnings whispered amongst the Jedi, about force sensitives who were never found by the Order. Many, it was said, were driven insane by the force, unable to process the crushing embrace of the galaxy, the normally invigorating pulse of life more akin to being burned beneath a magnifying glass.

Force sensitivity was a gift, Qui-Gon liked to say. But it was a costly one. 

After a few beats of contemplative silence, Anakin locked eyes with Obi-Wan, the yellow in them oddly less pronounced than before.

“I’ve got a feeling about you,” said Anakin. “I think you’re a good person, and I’ve got a policy about good people.”

“And what would that be?”

Anakin’s answering grin was lopsided. “Don’t kill them.”

Obi-Wan snorted. “If that is the case, then you may be the most chivalrous assassin I have ever met.”

“Met a lot of assassins, have you?”

“Tis’ a dangerous life, the life of a Jedi,” said Obi-Wan, in a voice he usually reserved for youngling learners in the creche. “One must expect to encounter all walks of life. Assassins, Sith, crime lord personnel...all three, in your case.”

Anakin tilted his head back and gave a loud, startled laugh, drawing Obi-Wan’s gaze to his slender neck. Anakin’s already tight-fitting grey shirt clung even closer to his skin, highlighting the definition in his chest. 

Heat simmered in Obi-Wan’s belly at the sight. 

Obi-Wan looked away from Anakin, his face burning. “So, to be clear, your plan is simply to ask Jabba to free me?”

“That about sums it up,” said Anakin.

“And if that doesn’t work?” 

Anakin paused. “Well, then we go with Plan B.”

“Plan B?” 

“We fight our way out,” said Anakin, cheerfully. 

Yes, of course. Fight our way out.

A headache began to throb behind Obi-Wan’s eyes. “Anakin,” Obi-Wan sighed, “how certain are you that Jabba will be amenable to your request? I understand that you are highly respected here, but would you stake my life on it? Your own life?”

“I’ve been slumming it with Jabba’s crew for a while now.” Anakin ran a hand through his hair, pulling it loose from behind his ears. “I’m not proud of it, but I know what they’re like. Favors are everything around here. If Jabba owes you, you better believe you’re untouchable. And besides,” he smiled at Obi-Wan, “I’m not gonna let them hurt you. I promise.”

The gentle cadence of Anakin’s voice was a dangerous thing. Combined with his earnest expression and the burst of warmth rippling from his force signature, Obi-Wan was liable to drink in Anakin’s fervent declarations and follow him headlong into this half-baked, ill-conceived plan that would surely get him killed. But what choice did he have? A guard had crushed his communicator and confiscated his lightsaber, and even if Obi-Wan did manage to send out an emergency signal before Jabba’s twisted celebration, there was no telling when reinforcements would be deployed to assist him.

Despite the gold glow of his eyes, Obi-Wan could not detect any malicious intent in this strange young man. He would just have to put his faith in Anakin and hope for the best. 

Trusting Anakin was a gamble, but truth be told, Obi-Wan was a betting man. 

~ ~ ~

Anakin’s frame of reference for music was, admittedly, limited. The first time he ever saw an instrument, he was seventeen and loitering around a Mos Espa pawn shop because he thought the sales clerk was hot. Before the manager got the chance to shoo him off, a flustered Pantoran had rushed through the door and dropped a stringed device on the counter, demanding an absurd amount of peggats. At first, Anakin had scoffed at the number. Something so... _ basic _ looking couldn’t have possibly deserved such a price. But to his shock, the manager didn’t even try to haggle it down, exchanging the instrument for a bag of peggats so hefty that it could have bought the contracts of three slaves. 

Anakin winced at the periodic squacks and drum beats emanating from the band presently stationed in the corner of Jabba’s hall. By now, he’d attended so many of Jabba’s parties that they practically blurred together in a series of drunken half-memories. 

Every time, no matter how drunk, he always remembered that the music sucked. 

Tonight, the dregs of Tatooine had turned out in full regalia. Word got out that the execution of a Jedi was to be the featured event of the evening, so every parasite in a fifty click radius was either lined up at the entrance or roaming around inside the palatial hall holding a martini, laughing out loud like it didn’t scare the shit out of them to be there. 

The synthetic lamp lights were dimmed down low, casting long shadows over the whole array. While some attendees wore colorful robes embellished with feathered high-collars, others donned tight bodices, thin leather straps zig-zagging over their bodies in complex stitching. Anakin himself had opted for the middle road; he wore a sleeveless black tunic and deep red trousers that hung loosely from his waist, allowing ease of movement. 

He wasn’t the type to dress himself up in jewelry, but he knew his gemstone encrusted  _ Skywalker _ necklace sort of suggested otherwise. He didn’t wear it all the time. Only during ostentatious events like this, when the wealthy slave-owning families showed up to flaunt their own gemstone surnames about their necks. 

Tatooine tradition, those necklaces. With just a glance, they conveyed everything you’d need to know about the sort of people that wore them.

And since Anakin was nothing if not a petty bastard, he reveled in watching their eyes drift to his necklace, the color draining from their faces as they realized that his was a slave surname. He’d trap them in small talk, smiling a little too wide, forcing them to oscillate between uncomfortable and afraid. 

Snatching a shot glass off a passing tray, Anakin downed the drink in one go before slamming it back down. There would be no time to play those games tonight. 

Raised prominently on the center stage were the dancers, their choreography no less confusingly erotic than when Anakin first witnessed it yesterday. An audience was slowly accruing around the stage, clapping during appropriate lulls in the music. Anakin inserted himself into the crowd. His attention was less focused on the dancers than on the cage dangling from the ceiling above them. 

If Obi-Wan was upset about being shoved half-naked into a giant cage, he didn’t show it. He was leaning back on the bars, bound hands folded neatly in front of him, posture decidedly regal for someone only wearing a golden loincloth and a collar. Anakin’s mouth went dry. His suspicions were confirmed: Obi-Wan was absolutely shredded. That musculature looked firm as granite, the reflective sheen over his chest giving his skin a supple, healthy appearance. He wondered for a split second why the other party guests weren’t also ogling Obi-Wan until he remembered that half-naked slaves were a relatively common sight in Jabba’s palace. 

Obi-Wan opened his eyes. His gaze immediately found Anakin’s in the crowd, making Anakin flush. It felt like he’d just been caught, somehow. Like he was a voyeur, drinking in Obi-Wan’s flesh without permission.

He pushed down the feeling and gave Obi-Wan a slight wave, arranging his expression in a way he hoped was reassuring. 

Obi-Wan tilted his head in response, gesturing to himself with a raised eyebrow.  _ How long do I have to be up here? _ the expression seemed to say.

Anakin mouthed back,  _ not long now _ .

For once, Anakin was right. A few seconds later, a cymbal clash announced the end of the musical entertainment, and the dancers leaped to their feet, bowing low. As they fled the stage, Jabba’s familiar voice boomed over the noise. 

“ _ Welcome, friends _ ,” said Jabba, the Huttese syllables dropping heavy over his bloated tongue. Tonight, his throne was more elaborately decorated than usual. Numerous crimson cushions were thrown atop a massive duvet that spilled over and ruffled at the base of the throne, each seam lined with intertwining threads of gold and silver. Beside him stood Bib, who quivered and fidgeted. “ _ I see many new faces in my home tonight. To my new friends, you are my honored guests. I offer you the wine and meat from my table. I hope that this night marks the start of long, fruitful friendships between our houses. _ ”

A murmur of approval rose from the crowd, some attendees raising their glasses in agreement. 

Jabba’s lips curled back. “ _ But I must warn you. Sometimes, new friends disrespect Jabba’s household. Betray him. Steal from him. Do not think that I allow such disrespect to go unpunished _ .”

A low, mechanical rattle erupted, and the chain holding Obi-Wan’s cage slowly began to lower him to the stage. All eyes in the room watched his descent, excited whispers beginning to stir and reverberate off the walls. 

Obi-Wan gripped one of the bars for support, watching the proceedings warily.

“ _ This Jedi came into my home _ ,” said Jabba, voice crescendoing. “ _ He drank my wine, ate from my table. And then, he stole from Jabba and lied about his crime _ .”

Booing and jeering followed. They were the worst of the worst: bored and bloodthirsty.

Guards rushed to the cage. They threw open the latch as it hit the floor, roughly dragging Obi-Wan out by his hair and parading him through the throng of bodies. A few onlookers prodded Obi-Wan during the procession, pinching his bare skin and snapping lewd insults about the Jedi’s state of undress. When they reached the throne’s base, a guard kicked in Obi-Wan’s legs, a chorus of malicious laughter bellowing at Obi-Wan as he slammed to the ground and grunted in pain.

It made for a humiliating display. Exactly as Jabba intended. 

“ _ But I am not without mercy _ ,” said Jabba, a deep chuckle emanating from somewhere in his throat, “ _ because I will allow this Jedi one final chance to admit his crime. _ ” 

His massive pupils swept downward at Obi-Wan. “ _ What say you, Jedi _ ?  _ Will you confess _ ?”

Obi-Wan steadied his breathing. “I know this must be terribly inconvenient, Lord  Jabba , but I suppose I do have a confession to make.” 

Jabba waited.

“I do confess,” drawled Obi-Wan, “that I am not in the habit of confessing to crimes that I have not committed.”

Anakin barely smothered a snort of laughter into his hand. He was  _ really _ starting to like this guy.

The crowd evidently didn’t think Obi-Wan’s response was as funny. They booed and jeered some more, their disapproval now peppered with shrill cries of  _ “punish him!” _ and  _ “make him pay!”  _

Jabba’s expression was thunderous. 

Perhaps sensing that his employer needed a moment to reign in his rage, Bib stepped forward. “Your insolence only worsens your position, Jedi,” said Bib, voice trembling. “In his infinite wisdom and mercy, Lord Jabba has only given you opportunities, and you have squandered them all.”

Obi-Wan tilted his head at Bib, those knowing blue eyes looking through him. “Truly?” he said.

“You are a disgrace,” bit out Bib, “and when we send you back to the Republic in a box, everyone will know of it. No one will speak for you.”

“I’ll speak for him.”

Bib froze. 

A stunned hush fell over the hall as Anakin stepped forward. 

It was a truth universally acknowledged that a slave, intending to survive, should bow their head and keep their mouth shut. Do not correct the mistakes of others. Do not take on responsibilities that are not yours. Look down, do your work, and under no circumstances stick your nose in business where it doesn’t belong. 

Anakin couldn’t remember the last time he’d stuck his neck out for anybody. Practically suicide, that kind of behavior. Willfully making himself the center of attention screamed against every instinct in his body, and as if to prove it, his gut twisted into a painful knot even as his legs carried him into the light. 

Not that he was taking a risk without a trick or two up his sleeve. 

“I know this is sudden, Lord Jabba—and I’m sorry about that, I swear,” Anakin raised his palms up, keeping his tone nonchalant, “but since you mentioned it, Bib, I thought I might throw my hat in for the Jedi.”

The silence that followed was impressively deafening. 

Bib’s teeth clattered together, and he sputtered, “Wha—What do you mean, Skywalker?”

“You know, speak for him. Like you said.”

“There is nothing to say!” Bib replied.

Anakin tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, grinning. “On the contrary, I think there’s at least two things to say. Actually, make it three. I’m feeling lucky tonight.” He winked into the crowd, provoking a wave of giggling.

Bib’s face twisted into a snarl. “You are too bold. This behavior is simply—”

“ _ Curious _ ,” intoned Jabba, lips curling back. Not in anger, but in an unusual sort of surprised pleasure. “ _ Proceed, Skywalker _ .”

Anakin flashed a smug grin at Bib, who snapped his jaw shut.

Show time.

“So, first of all,” said Anakin, waving at Obi-Wan’s nearly prostrate form, “I don’t like the Jedi anymore than the next sleemo, but stealing? Seems a little low grade for them. If the guy went through all the trouble of knocking out your guards and slipping into your quarters, he could have done a lot more than steal. Important, fearsome leader like you? Why not kill you and be done with it?”

A murmur rippled around the room. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Obi-Wan shift.

He held up two fingers. “And second, my lord, there’s just not enough evidence. We only have the word of Mr. Bib Fortuna over here, who, coincidentally, is one of the few people who actually  _ knows the access codes to your personal quarters _ .” He spoke the last words slowly, allowing the implication to settle and simmer.

Soon enough, Bib’s pale face turned ashen. Gasps echoed through the crowd, giving way to gleeful fits of tittering and excited chatter, like it was the most amusing thing they’d heard since flying out of their vulture nests.

“ _ And your third point, Skywalker _ ?” prompted Jabba, scratching under his chin.

Anakin smirked. “Well, your lordship, the outfit is doing it for me, so I was kinda hoping you’d just hand him over. As a favor.”

Jabba produced a deep, belly laugh. The partygoers mimicked it in kind, those same attendees who chanted for Obi-Wan’s head on a platter now cheering their encouragement. There was no doubt about it now: Anakin had won the room. 

He purposely avoided looking at Obi-Wan, but he still caught the way the Jedi’s shoulders tightened. The way his freckled skin flushed.

Jabba leaned forward, eyes flashing. “ _ The honorable house of Jabba _ _ Desilijic Tiure always repays lended favors. _ ”

“Of course, your lordship,” nodded Anakin. “Now, if you’ll just excuse us—”

“ _ Fortuna _ ,” said Jabba, ignoring Anakin. “ _ What do you think of Skywalker’s....interesting perspective? _ ”

Blinking fast, Bib’s beady eyes darted from Anakin to Jabba to Obi-Wan, the wheels in his head turning at the speed of light. Anakin was just beginning to feel sorry for the guy when Bib circled around and fell to his knees, flattening to the floor, arms thrown out as if in prayer.

“My lord,” gasped Bib, “this Jedi has bewitched Skywalker!”

“ _ Bewitched him? _ ”

“It is the only explanation—why else would Skywalker defend such a vile creature?” Tears were streaming down Bib’s face when he looked up. “He speaks heinous, untrue accusations. I would never sully the name of Jabba the Hutt by stealing from you! Never! I would rather  _ die _ !”

At that last declaration, the hair on the back of Anakin’s neck stood up. But not because Bib was lying.

But because he was telling the truth. 

Judging by the pleased look on Jabba’s face, he seemed to know it too. The slug lifted a green frothing drink to his lips, amusement washing over his massive features at Anakin’s dumbfounded expression.

“ _ It appears that I must repay your favors another time, Skywalker _ ,” said Jabba, “ _ for the loyalty of my chief of staff is absolute, and I cannot let the crimes of the Jedi go unpunished _ .” Beckoning lethargically at the guards, Jabba directed a filthy smile at Obi-Wan, curdling Anakin’s blood. “ _ Take him. _ ”

Well.

At least Anakin  _ tried _ to go about this without killing anyone.

The nearest guards were dead before they could so much as take a step toward Obi-Wan. The blaster that had been strapped to his leg burned hot in Anakin’s hands, the impact of the shots spraying brain matter onto the crowd of immaculately dressed bystanders. Screams rang through the hall.

Anakin’s pulse thumped loud and fast in his ears. He sprung to Obi-Wan’s side, shooting off the Jedi’s shackles and pulling him to his feet in the next instant. Obi-Wan’s clear blue eyes were wide with alarm. Giving him a grim smile, Anakin unclipped the other weapon he’d hidden on the inside of his inner thigh. He tossed it to Obi-Wan. 

“Time for Plan B,” said Anakin. He released another round of shots at the approaching cavalry, their advance slowed by a torrent of screaming partygoers currently flocking to the exits. Aided by a thrum of adrenaline, he hoisted the closest guard's corpse in front of them as a shield. 

Anakin braced himself, awaiting the next wave of guards to storm them with their blades raised high overhead. 

The attack never came.

As if lifted by an invisible hand, the row of guards flew backward and slammed against the wall, cracks resounding upon impact. Chairs and other furniture drifted upward and careened at their remaining enemies, striking them hard and fast. Anakin gaped at the sight. 

What in the hell— 

Out of the corner of his eye, a piercing blue light flickered to life. A scent like cool fire and the sound of deep, resonant purring filled the air, and suddenly nothing else mattered but the vision of Obi-Wan striding past him, hand outstretched, his lightsaber illuminating the hall like a beacon. Striking down a guard with an effortless downward slash, he turned to Anakin and said, “Do you have a speeder?”

Anakin dropped the corpse with a  _ thud _ . “Were you able to do that the entire time?”

“Anakin, now is not—”

“ _ Kill them! _ ” bellowed Jabba, expression murderous. “ _ A million peggats to the one who kills them both! _ ”

Anakin looked back at Obi-Wan. “Uh, yeah, I’ve got a speeder. This way—” 

Despite his lack of armor, or clothing, Obi-Wan was extremely adept at blocking incoming blaster fire as they raced to the palace’s entrance. He spun his lightsaber in one hand, occasionally launching a shot back at the shooter with a simple flick of the wrist. It made Anakin desperately want to tell him how  _ kriffing awesom _ e it looked, but the intense look of concentration on Obi-Wan’s face told him that he probably wouldn’t appreciate it right then. 

They propelled past a number of straggling partygoers, ducking and dodging every new assailant. Anakin had only just sidestepped an attack when he felt a sharp pain lacerate his arm. Blaster must have grazed him. He groaned and clutched the wound, his hand coming away red. 

“Anakin!” said Obi-Wan, back-pedaling to Anakin’s side. He placed a steadying grip on his shoulder. “Come on, we’re almost out.”

Anakin breathed shakily and nodded, following Obi-Wan out the massive gateway.

It was fortuitous that most people, even Jabba’s goons, found it cumbersome to run through sand. Several halted there at the entrance, shooting at them and shouting an array of inventive curses in their dust. 

Anakin and Obi-Wan didn’t have to run far. Parked only a few meters out was the Krayt, more beautiful now than ever before. He vowed that if he survived this night, he would clean each one of the Krayt’s internal mechanisms with a toothbrush.

As Obi-Wan settled in the passenger seat, Anakin ignited the engine and floored it. The Krayt roared to life, hurtling over the landscape like the dragon of her namesake. The sudden shift in velocity flattened Obi-Wan against his seat, and he shot Anakin a bewildered look, clenching the armrests tightly. Anakin only laughed, albeit a little hysterically. 

“Do you know a place we can hide?” Obi-Wan shouted over the wind.

“Yeah,” Anakin shouted back, “I know a place.”

~ ~ ~

“Anakin Skywalker, what the hell have you done now?”

Anakin held his wounded arm to his chest with a wince. “Uh, it’s a long story? Can we come in? Please?”

T’Prinka rolled her eyes but opened the door, allowing them to file inside.

It had seemed like the best idea at the time to go to T’Prinka. If bounty hunters weren’t already at his house, they soon would be, and T’Prinka was just about the only person he knew who wouldn’t turn him in for a million peggats. Most people he knew probably would have turned him in for five.

Still. He should have accounted for the fact that, without context, it appeared as though Anakin had abducted a pleasure slave from Jabba’s Palace.

Now clad in one of T-Prinka’s spacious purple shawls, Obi-Wan sipped ginger tea and watched T’Prinka stitch up Anakin’s arm at her kitchen table. She uncapped a small bottle, pouring its contents over the wound. 

“Son of a bitch!” hissed Anakin, jerking his arm away. He snatched the bottle out of her hands and read the label. “Did you just clean my arm with  _ whiskey _ ?”

T’Prinka shrugged. “Used up all the normal stuff the last time you got stabbed, remember? This stuff’s strong enough to do the job, so shut it and hold still.”

Anakin grumbled a few Huttese curses under his breath, swigging down the remainder of the bottle before presenting his arm again.

After a contemplative silence, Obi-Wan set his cup down on the counter. “Thank you for allowing me to use your comm-link,” he said. “A ship will come for me by morning, so I’m certain I can evade capture until I need to meet them at the rendezvous point.” He stood shakily to his feet, and suddenly Anakin realized that he meant to leave.

“Now hold on!” said Anakin. “It's way more dangerous out there than you think, Obi-Wan. Those hills are probably crawling with bounty hunters, all of them looking for you.”

Obi-Wan frowned. “I can’t impose on either of you any longer. I’m putting you in danger—”

“Oh, hush,” said T’Prinka, not looking away from Anakin’s arm as she threaded a needle through his bloodied skin. “No bounty hunter is gonna find us here, and they’re certainly not going to piss off the only woman who knows how to cure Jabba of his sniffles.”

Obi-Wan looked posed to argue the point further, so Anakin reached out with his good arm to tug the hem of his shawl, drawing Obi-Wan’s clear-eyed gaze. “Stay here tonight. Please,” Anakin said softly.

_ With me _ , he didn’t say.

The periodic drip of the leaky sink was the only sound in the kitchen for a few long moments. Then, Obi-Wan sat back down and stared into his folded hands, face a shade pinker. “Yes, well, I suppose I can protect you both if it comes down to that,” he muttered.

Anakin beamed, only to yelp when T’Prinka jabbed his skin again. Amusement danced in her eyes when he turned to scowl at her. 

T’Prinka ushered them into a cramped spare room in the back not long after. It’d evidently been used primarily as a storage space, with cabinets and shelves backed against every wall— leaving barely enough room on the floor for a single bedroll. T’Prinka didn’t even give Anakin the chance to object to the arrangement. She shoved the bedroll into his arms and bade them both a good night, patting Anakin’s good arm before whistling tunelessly out the door. 

They looked at the empty bedspace and then back at one another. 

The awareness of the insane thing Anakin had done, a flood of thoughts impossible to ignore, crept into his frontal lobe. Who, him? Anakin Skywalker? Former slave turned killer for hire? He wouldn’t throw everything away just to help a pretty face. I heard Anakin Skywalker ate a Jawa once on a dare. I heard Anakin Skywalker once stabbed a Muun cause he looked at him funny. Live fast, die hard Anakin Skywalker? There’s no way he’d ever save a  _ Jedi—  _

“Do you have a preference?” asked Obi-Wan, interrupting the sustained, high-pitched note blaring inside Anakin‘s head. Obi-Wan was kneeling atop the spread out bedroll, fluffing the single cushion that T’Prinka had provided them.

Anakin blinked. “A preference?”

Obi-Wan pointed down. “Right or left?”

“Uh,” said Anakin. “Left, I guess.”

Obi-Wan nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyelids were heavy as he crawled beneath the covers, turning on his side to face the wall.

Anakin followed suit, trying his best to ignore the heat of Obi-Wan’s back pressed close along his own, the scent of him just faint enough to make Anakin want to flip over and bury his nose in his hair, to inhale him. The thought made his face grow warm. It would be so easy, too. He was  _ right _ there.

He breathed out slowly, forcing himself to count to three. Anakin couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this close to another person. Over the years, he’d considered renting out a companion to satisfy those momentary bouts of desperation, those times when he felt like he might crawl out of skin from loneliness— or drive the Krayt into the side of a mountain. But no matter how bad the feeling got, he never stooped that low. He’d been on the other side of that deal too many times to stomach it.

“I don’t know how I can repay you for this,” said Obi-Wan, voice soft in the stillness of the room, “but I want you to know that I am grateful for what you did for me today.”

Anakin closed his eyes and snorted. “Grateful? I almost got you killed.”

Obi-Wan’s head shifted on the cushion. “Yet I am still here. At great personal risk, you helped me, Anakin.”

Hearing Obi-Wan say his name like that, all crisp and soft and warm, made Anakin’s throat tighten. “Don’t, um. Don’t mention it. No one works that long for Jabba, anyway. I should have left a while ago. You just gave me the push I needed.”

Obi-Wan paused. “What will you do now?”

“Go somewhere else, I guess. Can’t stick around Tatooine unless I wanna become sand wolf food.”

“And when you leave Tatooine,” said Obi-Wan, slowly, “what will you do then?”

Then it clicked. “Oh, I get it. You’re worried I’ll go back to killing people, is that it? That’ll I seek out the next most loaded mobster I can find and start murdering all his enemies?”

“That’s not—” Obi-Wan started. 

“It’s okay,” said Anakin. “I told you before...I’m— I’m not proud of everything I’ve done. But I made those choices. Now that I’ve just set my career on fire, maybe I can make different ones.”

After a beat of silence, Anakin continued, “I’m good at fixing things. Used to fix stuff for my mom all the time as a kid. I even made her a protocol droid. Well, C-3PO wasn’t a very  _ good _ protocol droid, but mom was nice about it. She let him fuss around the house even when he got on her nerves.”

“You could go to Corellia,” suggested Obi-Wan, then he paused. “Actually, not Corellia.”

“Why not?”

“For all its famous ships and pilots, it is a rather unsavory place to call home. Would you like to live somewhere like Tatooine?”

“Absolutely not,” said Anakin immediately. “If I never saw another spec of sand again for the rest of my life, I would die a happy man.”

Obi-Wan chuckled. “Then...I think you should visit Naboo, or Alderaan. In my humble opinion, they are the most beautiful planets in the galaxy. And every planet needs good mechanics.”

Anakin sat up, then flipped over on his other side to face Obi-Wan. “Have you seen them all? All the planets, I mean?” asked Anakin, unable to keep the wonder from coloring his voice. 

“Not all of them, I’m afraid,” said Obi-Wan, bemused. “I’m sent where I’m needed, and sometimes that means traveling to new, sandy planets to meet new yellow-eyed friends. Traveling was once my favorite part of being a Jedi.”

“It was? What about now?”

Rolling onto his back, Obi-Wan tilted to face Anakin. There was something vulnerable in his expression when he spoke, like he was making a confession. “Now, I prefer life at the temple. The first thing I do when I return from a mission is go to the Room of a Thousand Fountains. There, I meditate, and suddenly it feels like it's the first time I’ve been able to breathe in weeks. There’s nothing but the quiet, and the presence of the only family I have ever known around me, and it feels...it feels good.”

Anakin broke into a wry grin. “That sounds so peaceful, I can’t even imagine it. You must miss it.”

“Yes,” said Obi-Wan, looking up at the ceiling. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

Long into the night, Obi-Wan regaled Anakin with stories of the Jedi temple and the planet on which it resided. The Jedi temple was the eye of the hurricane, a space where the Jedi could attune themselves to the living force in the heart of the galaxy. Anakin had heard of Coruscant, of course, but described so reverently from Obi-Wan’s lips, the planet of skyscrapers seemed now like a painted dream. It all seemed too much, too infinite. Like a glittering kingdom awash with magic, and Obi-Wan was the wizard who lived in its highest tower.

Anakin let the waves of Obi-Wan’s words overtake him until he was gentled by them into sleep, warmed by the heat of Obi-Wan’s body beside him.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Fuel to Fire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWUhIURJW_4) by Agnes Obel was what I listened to while Anakin and Obi-Wan were chatting in that last scene. And [Brothers in Arms](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F4S5BlPrPNA) for that whole party scene.

**Author's Note:**

> So the title of this fic is a reference to The Lament of Eustace Scrubb, by the Oh Hellos. I thought it fit the theme of this fic pretty well.


End file.
